In Iowa, I joined poets, synapse
to-syntax, elbow-to-elbow
around a wooden table.
We'd come to learn how to turn
an apple core into a glowing coal.
We shared summer's thick heat, Midwest thunder
storms, the galaxies that shine
in photos from the Hubble telescope,
universes as they were
not long after the explosion. We'll never know
if those clouds of gas and fire still whirl;
we gaze into galactic space through a wide-angle lens
aimed backward in time,
like the practice of the Hassidic Jew
who sits at his table, a prayer
shawl draped across his shoulders,
as he copies letters from the Hebrew alphabet - alef
beit - to create the world anew.
Listen now, as he spreads the parchment,
and makes the three strokes of the alef.
Listen as the alef lifts free of the black ink
and echoes into space.

Listen for the sound of stars
spawned in galactic winds.

Barbara Bowen